I All Alone Beweep My Outcast State
by petnurser
Summary: Major deaths. I really don't know where this came from. I am sorry - in advance.


I am really not sure where this came from

Doctor John Watson checked in at the reception desk. "Sherlock Holmes?" He said.

The nurse asked if John if he was family and John replied, "Close enough. I should have clearance. Dr. John Watson."

"Yes. Room 354. Down the hall and to the right."

John found his friend in his chair staring out the window across the city he loved. "I hate it here, John. I hate the activity of the city. I hate that I can no longer roam easily. I hate that I can no longer walk. I hate that this city took them away. I hate being so alone."

John didn't know what to say. He came to see his friend, to see how he was progressing. Sherlock wasn't doing well at all. Physically he was improving every day. Soon he could be discharged to go home. Home was going to be with his parents until 221B could be modified with rails and a stair lift. Emotionally was a different story.

It was tragic. Molly and Sherlock were riding in a car that Mycroft sent to bring them to the Holmes' family cottage to celebrate Mr. and Mrs. Holmes' wedding anniversary. It was a rather foggy, rainy night in early April. They sat in the back of the car discussing names for the bump that they already loved. They were laughing at the names they were coming up with. Their driver never saw the lorry turn the corner moving far too fast. The lorry driver had never turned on the lights, as drunk as she was.

The impact was fast. The lorry ended up on its side crushing Mycroft's car. Their driver was killed instantly. Molly lingered in the hospital for three days before succumbing to her injuries taking with her their child and Sherlock's heart. Sherlock regained consciousness four days after the accident to learn his little family was gone and his spinal cord had been seriously damaged. He was in a rehabilitation hospital now, learning to live a life he no longer wanted.

"Sherlock, "John began tenderly.

"John, don't tell me that everything will be OK. My heart is gone and I no longer care." John simply watched as his friend wheeled himself into the hallway and away from someone who cared. John took out his phone and texted Mycroft, _despondent. Extreme danger night._

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Mycroft Holmes put down his phone and sighed. Since his sister-in-law and niece or nephew had passed, every night was a danger night. Regardless of his own feelings about sentiment, Molly had been good for his little brother. He had actually enjoyed watching the silent communication that they had shared. It was certainly a language that no one else could understand but anyone could appreciate the absolute love between Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

Some of the time, he almost wished that his brother had died along with his family. It would have been much less painful for Sherlock. With more than a touch of sadness, Mycroft made his plans and gathered some things to take with him when he went to see him.

An hour later, Mycroft Holmes entered the foyer of the hospital. There were files under his right arm, his umbrella in his left hand. In the files were details of cases that were yet to be solved by his office. They were not exceptionally exciting nor were they top priority but maybe they would help Sherlock's emotional recovery, to make him feel useful again.

Despite it being early in the evening, Sherlock was in bed, lying on his side. His dressing gown pulled around himself like a blanket. His dinner was untouched and cold. Mycroft quickly ascertained that he was not asleep but trying to make everyone believe he was.

"Brother, dear, I've brought you something," Mycroft began.

"Piss off," was the clipped reply.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fantastic. I was thinking of going to the clubs this weekend."

Mycroft just sighed. He placed the files on the tray table that was alongside the bed. "I've brought you some files that I would like you to look at. Nothing urgent, just perplexing." With no reaction from his brother, Mycroft turned to go.

"Thank you, brother." Sherlock said flatly, never turning to look at his brother.

Sherlock lay in bed, shifting occasionally to avoid pressure injuries he wouldn't feel. He's not sure why he bothered. He wouldn't feel them anyway, infection and sepsis would set in and he would die. Maybe Mycroft was right, caring was not an advantage. His broken heart was absolute proof of that.

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep until a nursing assistant was waking him with a fresh breakfast. "Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes. Your breakfast is ready."

"Take it away, I don't want it."

The assistant quietly left the room, leaving the savory breakfast behind.

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Sherlock left the rehabilitation hospital much to the relief of the faculty.

His attitude didn't improve much with the interactions of family. It all came to a head one afternoon in June.

Sherlock was frustrated. The sun was the perfect of shade of yellow, his Molly's favorite color. The sky was that color of blue that implied that all was right in the world, but it wasn't. His Molly wasn't there, his Molly and their baby.

Mrs. Holmes watched her son through the kitchen window. She saw how he struggled to move around the garden, the trouble he had with the wheelchair he sat in as he moved the wheels over the grass and soft ground. She was, despite her reputation of flakiness, fully aware of the pain her younger son was going through. Admittedly she had never felt the blinding and debilitating pain she knew he was feeling but she was glad he was here instead of the cold, impersonal city of London.

She loved Molly like a daughter. From the moment she met her son's then girlfriend then fiancée then wife Mrs. Holmes was taken in by her. She was pretty and petite, not a stunning beauty but certainly a great match for her William. She saw their love as a "matter-of-fact", something that just was. It was something that always was and would always be. She could see that Sherlock loved her still and was having a difficult time coping.

The kettle boiled and she set up her tray.

Sherlock ignored his mother's approach but gladly accepted the tea she offered. As he sipped at the strong black tea sweetened with local honey the tears began to fall.

"Mummy, I miss her so much. I miss them so much," he sobbed.

Mrs. Holmes gently took the cup from his trembling hands and placed it back on the tray she had placed on the ground. She held her son as he sobbed and finally released the grief he had held for so long. She knew that he hadn't cried or shown any outward signs of what he felt. Almost three months after the accident, the dam had finally burst.

If asked, neither William Sherlock Scott Holmes nor Violet Vernet Holmes would be able to recall how long they held to each other in the garden of Sherlock's childhood home.

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When life at 221B Baker Street resumed it was far from normal. Mrs. Hudson was up two or three times a day to make sure Sherlock cared for himself. A carer came by in the morning to insure he got out of bed and helped him dress and another at night to make sure he got into bed. The days were filled with boredom and cases that once were ignored due to their simplicity. He even took ones and twos to keep busy.

Sherlock bristled at the loss of privacy and the compromise of his dignity. Toileting habits became just that, habits. It wasn't taken care of when the need arose, as before.

Through it all was Mrs. Hudson. She made sure he ate. She brought up his mail. She goaded him to keep a check on his e-mail. When a particularly intriguing problem came across his computer, she made him investigate. Mrs. Hudson called that cab company with the order that they send a car that was accessible to a wheelchair-bound man.

She walked in on him with the morning tea tray one August morning. His carer had just left. She was an attractive woman with amazing patience. She made sure he dressed and helped him with physical needs, washing and the like. He was at his desk looking at the computer screen. On it was a fuzzy black and white image of an ultrasound scan. Mrs. Hudson put on a brave face and held back the tears. Sherlock didn't.

"She was due next month."

"I know, dear."

"Violet Martha Margaret Holmes, after some of the strongest women we knew. Molly bristled at the 'Margaret'; it was her full first name. She didn't think she belonged in such prodigious company."

Martha Hudson didn't know what to say, so she listened.

"John Mycroft Gregory if he was male. Don't tell Mycroft, he'll be even more insufferable."

The older woman just smiled through her tears and moved to hold her tenant who was more like a son to her while he cried.

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September came. Sherlock continued to learn how to live his new life and slowly adjusted to the physical and emotional changes that had occurred. The evening of the due date of his and Molly's baby was spent with friends. He was tired of the pain, tired of the sadness. It was time to move beyond it.

The day was spent alone, remembering. He remembered her beauty, her laugh, her kindness and her appalling but (he felt) endearing fashion sense. Sherlock remembered how attractive she was with her growing bump and how much he always wanted her. He remembered their first time making love and when she revealed the pregnancy. He remembered how he took his breath away in her wedding dress. Sherlock Holmes organized the memories of his wife. He would go back and retrieve some of them when he felt low, but they didn't generate the crushing sadness they once did.

Sherlock knew he would have, as John put it, "bad days". He would weather them the best he could. One thing he wouldn't do is fall back into his old habits. He promised Molly he wouldn't. He had every intention of honoring that pledge.

The evening was spent away from 221B. Angelo was more than happy to set up a memorial dinner for the woman that meant so much to so many. Sherlock, John, Mary, the littlest Watson, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were there. The conversation was light and tender. Molly was spoken of in loving terms, as if anyone could say anything negative about the petite pathologist that stole the consulting detective's heart.

There wasn't a dry eye at the table when Sherlock called them to attention. "We all loved Molly in our own way. As a friend, "he lifted his glass toward Greg, then John, "as a confidante, "Mary, "as family, "Mycroft, his parents, and Mrs. Hudson. His voice quivered a small amount as he continued. "She was the only one to break through to my heart and, although her loss broke said heart, the love remains. I raise my glass to Doctor Margret Elizabeth Hooper-Holmes. She will always be my heart."

When they left the restaurant, Sherlock began to feel an ache in his legs.

After a battery of tests, Sherlock's specialists determined that, although he would most likely never walk on his own again, increased mobility wasn't impossible. In time, Sherlock Holmes grew to accept and adapt to his physical limitations. He could eventually stand with support, which made his personal care easier, but never regained the ability to move about without being in a chair.

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Years after the accident he was interviewed for a local paper:

_Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, has seen and solved many mysteries in his forty-year-plus career in crime solving. From his home in Sussex he spoke to us via digital relay. "It was always the challenge of solving puzzles."_

_When asked about the accident that paralyzed him he had only this to say, "That was a long time ago, I have long made my peace with it." It was thirty years ago that Mr. Holmes lost his wife and unborn child in a tragic accident. The same accident left him a paraplegic. It was believed at the time that Mr. Holmes would retire from crime solving. He continued to work with Scotland Yard until the death of DCI Gregory Lestrade (retired) last year. When asked to comment, he simply said, "Gavin was a good friend."_

_Today, _The Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes_ is a bestseller, exceeding all expectations of its publisher. Although Watson Publishing won't confirm the exact number of downloads its founding author has sold, it is estimated to be in the millions. Dr. John Watson declined comment stating that the stories spoke for themselves. Dr. Watson, a recent widower, has announced his retirement from medicine and writing. Creative control of the company has been transferred to his son, Hamish. Dr. Watson's older child, Dr. Elizabeth Watson, is a professor of pediatric medicine at Saint Bartholomew's School of Medicine and Dentistry._

John put down the paper and picked up his tea. The Sussex Times was one of the few papers that still printed on actual paper. At Sherlock's invitation he had moved in here after his retirement and Mary's death. Sometime it really felt like old times with the exception of the elderly aches and pains. John was a little concerned; Sherlock was usually up by this time. He slowly made his way up the stairs to Sherlock's bedroom. With the door closed, John knocked softly and getting no answer opened the door slowly. He found his friend in bed. It was obvious that he had passed sometime during the night.

_ Sherlock Holmes, famous consulting detective, has died. Holmes is believed to have died of natural causes at his home in Sussex... He was the husband of Dr. Margaret Elizabeth Hooper-Holmes and the father of their child, both predeceasing Mr. Holmes. William Sherlock Scott Holmes made a name for himself by solving seemingly unsolvable mysteries... He was the son of the late Segir Holmes and Violet Vernet Holmes. His brothers were the late Sherrinford and Mycroft Holmes. Funeral arrangements are private._


End file.
